This is Why we Can't Have Nice Things
by myicefantasy
Summary: France sat, cramped uncomfortably, behind a potted fern resting outside a cracked doorway, fully intent on learning everything he could about the events taking place within the room. Poor Canada. Always in the wrong place, at the wrong time. No pairings


Summary: France sat, cramped uncomfortably, behind a potted fern resting outside a cracked doorway, fully intent on learning everything he could about the events taking place within the room. Poor Canada. Always in the wrong place, at the wrong time. No pairings

Warnings: personified nations, mentioned nudity, profanity, France. Out of curiosity, does anyone actually read these?

Rating: T

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, nor have I ever claimed that I have.

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The proud, self proclaimed 'Nation of Lamoure', home to some of the finest gourmet food, architectural marvels and artistic wonders in all the world; the République Française, sat, cramped uncomfortably, behind a potted fern resting outside a cracked doorway. Although he was incredibly sore and his knees had started to shake from strain of crouching in one position for so long, he dared not move. The door he had positioned himself out side of was ajar ever so slightly, letting the conversation of those inside to slip through the breach and quietly drift through to the otherwise empty hallway.

Now why would our, um, _hero_ sink to such a low as to eavesdrop on a conversation that had nothing to do with him? Simple. Located behind the confines of the door was every female nation in the midst of planning one of the biggest events of the year. The cause of gathering for this unlikely group was the annual 'girl's night out' and France, for his part, was going to do everything in his power to make sure that he had the tremendous event on tape.

And a tremendous event it was. While regular human's "girl's nights" could often get wild, the female nations brought it to a whole new level. Last year's bash had ended when every single one of them had gotten arrested for streaking across the White House lawn with nothing but purple cowboy boots and the smiles on their faces. This was quite a feat seeing as the event had begun at Hungary's house and the boots had been custom made in Taiwan that night. How the group had gotten so many people on a flight that would normally taken over nine hours piss drunk and in nothing but their birthday suits was anyone's guess.

As France quietly jotted down some notes pertaining to the event, he contemplated just how he was going to go about taping this year's affair. In previous years he had tried everything from his Pierre birds with cameras taped to them to a full out, ninja themed grappling from the roof (complete with a fully black ninja suit). France subconsciously shuttered. He was still having trouble walking after he had attempted the previous. Who knew Belarus could be so creative with those knives of hers?

A disturbance down the hall brought France from his musings and temporally distracted him from the conversation in the room. America was screaming at a seated Russia. The Russian responded, his ever present smile plastered on his face. America grabbed the Russian by the scarf and pulled him up, never ceasing his yelling of angry nonsense. Russia subtly drew his pipe from the folds of his coat and whacked America over the head with it. The momentary stun that came over the American was all Russia needed to slip away and mosey down the hallway. America, snapping out of it, ran after him, declaring war on the 'commie'.

While France would have liked to follow them to see them relive, as he saw it, their 'sexual tension' left over from the cold war, the matter at hand took precedent. Honestly, you think Russia would have learned not to sit on his petit Canada. It only served to tick his brother off. France sighed. Canada was simply to polite and quiet for his own good.

France blinked. Honestly, why had he not thought of it before? He had raised the poor child, hadn't he?

''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

"Keseseseses! Best. Idea. EVER!"

"I do try mon ami"

"Aww, look at Belgium's waffle pajamas. So cute!"

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Over a thousand miles away, a poor northern nation stood awkwardly and unnoticed to the side with a camera in his hand and a blackmail note in his pocket. For what seemed like the millionth time that night he sighed and cursed silently at the world, his invisibility, and his love for a certain sticky syrup.

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A/N: I shouldn't write things at two in the morning. I sound like a pompous ass when I do. Please let me know if you spot any mistakes as I am prone to making them. Constructive criticism is appreciated.


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